Perihelion
by My Misguided Fairytale
Summary: On the hunt for a particular item, Ging Freecs meets Pariston Hill at the Southernpeace Auction. "It's too bad we're both not here for the same thing. Wouldn't that be something." / Ging x Pariston


Title: Perihelion

Genres: Drama, Suspense

Summary: On the hunt for a particular item, Ging Freecs meets Pariston Hill at the Southernpeace Auction. "It's too bad we're both not here for the same thing. Wouldn't that be something." / Ging x Pariston

A/N: Takes place 2 years before the Auction that Gon & friends attend. Pariston has just recently been appointed as Vice-Chair. I hope you enjoy the story!

* * *

**_Perihelion_**

* * *

Ging Freecs reaches up with one hand to shield his eyes as he walks leisurely down the streets of Yorkshin City. The bright, sharp sunlight glints off every available surface, turning the glass and steel into something that sparkles with a quality that seems to improve the aging, faded structures and makes them look almost respectable. The neighborhood a few blocks from the Southernpeace Auction House is overcrowded and falling into disrepair, stuffed with mid-rise apartment complexes in uniform styles built a few decades prior, and the streets are filled with people—commuters on bicycles pass him by, heading deeper downtown, and every bar and café he passes on street level is packed full.

On one street corner he stops and glances at a television propped up above the counter of a bar, just barely visible from the street. Those gathered are watching some kind of sporting event, and a cheer goes up as the team dressed in red scores a goal. The light is still red, and Ging sticks his hands in his pockets; they come away with a ten-jenni note, and when the light changes he continues walking, going a few paces out of his way to drop the money into a homeless man's bucket.

He is in no hurry, but he has no way of telling the time, either, so he makes his way leisurely up the street, towards the Auction House. The wind blows the edge of his scarf up towards his face, and as he pulls it down he notices that the bar he just passed is having technical difficulties. What little crowd hasn't dispersed yet shout to each other about the score and the staff struggle with the large, dated television set.

"It's 5-7," Ging calls out, adjusting his scarf. "The guys in red just scored."

They look happy to hear that, at least, but to Ging's eye, that one man looks close to electrocuting himself with the way he's messing with the power box.

"Hey, hey, let me take a look at that."

The food someone at the counter is eating looks halfway decent; certainly better than the questionable looking deli he'd passed only a few minutes prior. He stuffs his hands back in his pockets as he studies the power box, coming to the startling realization that he is very much out of money. He wonders if this bar would accept a line of credit from his Hunter's License. Doubtful, as he doesn't have the physical license on him, and they don't even have any of the necessary licensing or sanitation scoring signs posted in the grimy window.

He begins to adjust the wiring, frowning at the way the coating is close to flaking off. "Bring the television a little closer." They comply with every one of his requests, and the aging, balding bartender holding the television begins to regale him with a story of how he once saw the last match between these two teams, at an international championship over a decade ago.

"Must've been exciting." The wires are reconnected, and Ging flips the switch; the television comes back on, the signal too weak for Ging's liking. "Give me a few minutes and I can fix that, too." It might take climbing on the roof. He's sure whatever antenna they're using for the signal is at fault.

He watches the others watch the television—it's certainly more interesting than the game itself, and although the score is up for the moment the local team looks like they're doing their best to lose—and slips into an empty seat next to a man about his age, the one eating a greasy-looking, sliced-beef sandwich.

"Do you ever go to the Auction?" Ging asks the question just lightly enough that it doesn't sound leading. It starts up the next day, and he's curious to see what else will be offered for sale beyond what he is specifically there to see.

He gets a response. "The Southernpeace Auction?" Like there is any other they could be talking about. "My cousin used to work in that building. Security—they hire a lot of people around this time, if you fit the bill. Saw some pretty strange things for sale."

"Like what?"

"Relics an' jewels an' old books. The old books always interested me. I'd have him bring me the program books people would throw out, after. Millions of jenni to buy one of those, and they just throw 'em out! Worthless, after the event's over." The man gives him a deep chuckle before taking a long pull from the glass of beer in his hand.

"You look thirsty. Let me buy you a beer, for fixin' the television." He waves the same bartender over, who is more than happy to pour him a glass of the same cheap, local brew.

Ten minutes later and he's gotten the same man to buy him two sandwiches and an order of fries, too. He's making the one beer last, though—wouldn't do to go walking into the auction house with the smell of alcohol on his breath. The staff are remarkably obliging to Hunters, as he knows, but he'll need a few extra favors and it'll be better for him if the staff doesn't find a reason to refuse him. An _additional_ reason—the dirt smudged into his skin and the sweat sticking his hair to the back of his neck will make him stick out, there, but here they work in his favor.

The game is in its last ten minutes when Ging rises, making sure to get the man's name and the name of the bar before leaving; with his hunger taken care of, he has no more reason to stay. Everyone in the bar, from the bartender to the group of older men towards the back, making bets, ask him to stay, to finish out the game. The team is down, and he has no desire to watch them lose. Might be bad karma.

So he slips out, sticking his hands back in his pockets as he walks the four blocks to the Southernpeace Auction House.

Inside, the lobby is as beautiful as a postcard. His boots track a line of dirt across their immaculately polished floors, but he barely pays the gleaming chandeliers or oversize flower arrangements any attention, choosing to focus on the wooden reception desks spanning the length of one wall. Ging walks up to one, and when they offer him a greeting and the requisite '_how may I help you today?'_ he lists his requests, for the first time wishing for his Hunter License to speed up the process.

"I'll need a catalog of the items up for auction," he says, in a slow, leisurely drawl. He's still got time to kill. "And a room. Do you know if the hotel across the street has any vacancies?"

The receptionist offers him a smile and one phone call later, he's got a penthouse suite reserved in his name and a copy of the auction catalog. He signs over twelve million jenni for the bill, folds the catalog under one arm, and departs for the hotel. They have all his keys and documents ready for him, and he is directed towards a bank of elevators reserved exclusively for suite guests.

He turns the corner and stops in his tracks.

In front of the elevators, one arm resting on the edge of a suitcase, stands Pariston Hill, the recently appointed Vice-Chairman of the Hunter Association.

He looks surprised to see Ging there, but masks it well, his eyes sweeping from Ging's shoes to his hat, taking in every little detail—and even though they both look no different from the last time they'd seen one another, there is plenty to notice. The catalog. The lack of luggage.

There are three others with him, a woman and two men, and Pariston dismisses them with a flick of the wrist. One of the men takes his suitcase, and they disappear so smoothly that it almost looks practiced.

"Ging Freecs. What a surprise." The elevator doors open, and Pariston boards first, one hand hovering above the panel of buttons. "Which floor?"

"Twenty-seven."

"The top floor, then." A light chuckle, and he presses the button. The doors close with a chime. "What a coincidence. I happen to be staying there myself. Perhaps you might join me for a drink. I'd be very interested to hear what brings _you _to the auction."

"Sure," he replies. The elevators are fast, and when the doors open again Ging lets Pariston lead the way, in the opposite direction of the room number Ging has been assigned. Pity that his own penthouse seems to be on the corner with the worst views.

Pariston _does _hold the door open for Ging, and inside, the room is smartly decorated; the wet bar beside the kitchen is already stocked, and Ging notes that Pariston's suitcase rests against a closed door, towards the back of the suite.

Ging settles himself onto a sofa designed more for style than for comfort, and leans back, his feet spread out.

"What can I get you?" Pariston calls.

"Oh, whatever you're having is fine." Ging busies himself with studying the first few pages of the catalog while Pariston makes the drinks, and a few minutes later he has a single malt Scotch by his side. He picks up the glass, swirling it, and watches the ice cubes clink together. He takes a couple sips, and makes an appreciative sigh.

"Thanks for this." He sets the glass down, purposefully avoiding the coaster.

"So," and Pariston drops down onto the armchair adjacent to the sofa, and whether he mirrors Ging's posture unconsciously or on-purpose, he does it all the same. "What brings you to the auction?"

"Oh, there's some artifacts from a site I excavated up for sale. They weren't acquired legally, and I want them back, so I'm buying them on behalf of a museum in Swaldani City." He keeps his voice light, absently flipping through the book. He knows it'll be presented on one of the later days—the auction is careful to organize their listings to put like items together, and the artwork usually goes first, followed by more nouveau listings, like expensive cars, signed memorabilia, or rare video games—and the ancient artifacts are sold later, alongside any biological specimens or anything of historical import. The only exceptions are the larger items, which typically sell first, and those projected to incur the greatest expenses, which typically sell last.

"And yourself?" He makes sure to ask right after Pariston has set down his drink, so he cannot use that to delay his answer.

"I must admit I'm here for personal reasons, if that's what you're asking." He smiles over the bridge created by his linked fingers, assessing Ging with a quiet, restrained curiosity. "I'm not on official business for the Hunter Association."

"And those…personal reasons? What would those be?" Ging continues to flip through the catalog book, but he doesn't look at the pages, preferring to hold Pariston's eye contact. He won't miss a single one of Pariston's tells.

"There's some rare vases that caught my interest. From the middle of the Azian Continent. Nothing you'd find exciting, I'm sure." Pariston delivers the entire speech without blinking, and Ging bites the inside of his cheek to keep from calling him out on his obvious lies.

"Rare vases, huh? That's your secret? I never would have guessed." Ging's response is accompanied by an easy smile. He closes the book on his lap and reaches for his drink. When he sets it down again, empty, the condensation from the glass leaves little concentric rings on the tabletop.

"I think I've disappointed you," Pariston teases. "Tell me what image you'd crafted of me in your mind, so I can try to outshine it."

"It's too bad we're both not here for the same thing." He stretches out each word, watching Pariston closely for his reaction. "Wouldn't that be something."

"Indeed. But I would hate to deprive you of something you wanted so dearly. After you've gone to so much trouble." And Pariston leans back in his chair, eye contact broken, drink forgotten. From the relaxed set of his shoulders, and the way he completely ignores Ging now, his body turned away from Ging and towards one of the big picture windows overlooking the auction house, it's clear he believes he's gotten whatever he wanted from their conversation.

"Maybe I can develop a sudden interest in Azian vases by tomorrow evening?" He flashes Pariston a smile, which the other man returns in the form of an artful shrug and a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat.

"You should. I like having competition." His body language remains closed-off, but he shoots Ging a look from over his shoulder as Ging stands, collecting his catalog and adjusting his loose scarf.

"Thanks for the drink," Ging says. "I'll see myself out."

Inside his own room, identical to Pariston's save for the orientation of the bedrooms and the view out the window, Ging paces.

Until they had met face to face, it had been all too easy to track Pariston and his three cohorts through their _Nen _signatures; the second they saw him, they had cut theirs with _Zetsu_, but now it is just a simple matter of searching for the empty spaces, where the absence of any noticeable _Nen _is too conspicuous, and he finds them again with ease. They're in the hallway outside the bank of elevators—perhaps Pariston has asked one of them to make sure Ging returned to his room, and that if he leaves it, to report on his location. The effort is hardly necessary—unless, to Pariston, it is.

He consults the catalog. The artifacts from his archaeological site are easily found, to be auctioned off on day four, and he memorizes the page number and all the pertinent information about the listing, and afterwards he flips through the book, searching.

There _is _a collection of Azian vases being auctioned off on day three, and the large, glossy photos in the catalog do little to mask how absolutely hideous they look. The colors seem like things Pariston would like—blacks and reds and golds—and the porcelain is delicate, stretched up around the lip of the vases like the bones of a skeleton, so thin that they become translucent.

If Pariston Hill is really at the Southernpeace Auction for these, Ging decides, he'll eat his hat.

Which means he must be here for something else. He'd tried to hide it well, but there were two chinks in his carefully, if hastily, crafted armor.

The first was in his reaction to Ging's provocation_—"Maybe I can develop a sudden interest in Azian vases by tomorrow evening?"_—when the only Azian vases were being auctioned off three days from now. He would have mentioned that, perhaps told Ging he'd have three days with which to develop this new interest—but he hadn't. Which made Ging think that whatever Pariston was there to buy would be auctioned off on day one.

He knows that _artwork_ is typically the first major category of items to be auctioned…and Pariston having and hiding an interest in art makes about as much sense to Ging as Pariston having an interest in Azian vases.

And the second chink—the most obvious fissure in Pariston's lies—had been in his initial description of the vases. "_From the middle of the Azian Continent_," he'd said. There was no need to be that specific, unless he was attempting to substantiate his story with factual details about his true objective.

He pulls out his phone and locates a map of the Continent, scrolling through and identifying the few countries that could qualify. Kakin is the largest, and the most centrally located—and _not_ known for their vases. Come to think of it, they're not known for much of anything beyond their government's complete reformation and their leadership's aggrandized thinking.

The other countries on his list are poor and small and he cannot see why they would have drawn Pariston's attention. So, with his catalog open to an entry for an old piece of artwork by a renowned naturalist painter, unremarkable in all ways except for one, his initial conclusion is proved correct. There can be no doubt about Pariston's reasons for attending the auction, and what he hopes to gain.

Ging phones down to the front desk and makes arrangements for his provisions for the following day. He'll need a suit, and dress shoes, and a seat in the reserved section for that evening's auction…

He had masked his own aura with _Zetsu_ from the moment he'd entered Yorkshin. But now, with the action no longer necessary, he releases it. The other auras in the immediate area react to it, and he can feel them retreating, then moving closer, with suspicion, before they mask their own auras again.

They needn't bother. He isn't going anywhere.

He settles himself crosslegged on the bed, the catalog open before him. He studies that single piece of artwork, over and over again, until every last detail is memorized.

But when he closes his eyes, it isn't that piece of artwork he sees—not the faded color, or the clean, sharp lines, or the arched, scale-covered back and curved claws of a creature not existing in this world—but Pariston's face, grinning over his linked hands.

_I like having competition_, he had said.

Ging wonders if he meant it.

* * *

The next day sees Ging Freecs in a rented tuxedo slightly too long in the sleeves and body, and a bow-tie around his neck. He'd even shaved, and made an effort at combing back his hair, and as he walks into the auction house he straightens his back and lifts his chin, copying the posture of the others around him to blend in better. He holds back, leaning against the wall in the antechamber to the theatre where the auction is scheduled to begin in the next hour. He watches men and women enter, clutching each other's arms or jeweled handbags or walking sticks made of rare, polished wood, displaying the symbols of their status. With no weapons allowed inside, each attendee must have proof of their personal authorization in the form of a seat ticket, auction number, or the like, and those that choose to have bodyguards attend must pay for each individually. As Ging watches, he counts up what he imagines to be each person's total sum invested into this event.

He waits and he watches, counting the minutes along with the people, until the auction is moments from starting. And then he makes his move, sauntering through the open double doors and across a sea of red velvet carpeting, taking each step slowly, carefully, with purpose. He's memorized his assigned seat, and the layout of the theatre, and he brushes past an usher without a word as he takes the first aisle and makes his way towards his seat.

The theatre is very nearly full, and his seat is one off from the aisle, about three-quarters of the way down. He would normally have never picked this seat—it's too open, too exposed, and too crowded—but it does have one good thing going for it.

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the ticket Southernpeace had assigned him, pretending to study it as he walks down another couple steps.

"O, N, M…L!" He counts each row, before turning and standing expectantly in front of the appointed number. He lets his eyes widen in surprise, and checks the ticket again just to be sure.

Pariston looks less than amused at Ging's arrival, and makes no intent to move as Ging counts the number of seats, looking for the one assigned to him—a useless effort, as the only one still open in the row is the one right beside Pariston.

Ging offers him a lopsided smile. "Looks like that one's me." He brushes past Pariston's legs as he enters their row—the other man still won't move for him, and he's taken both armrests too—and with an pronounced huff, he settles himself into the seat.

It squeaks, and he rocks back and forth a few times for fun. Pariston finally looks his way, tilting his head and observing him through the fringe of his bangs. "Fancy seeing you here tonight," Ging says.

"I thought I might as well get my money's worth," Pariston tells him. "And yourself? I thought your artifacts weren't going up until day three."

"You're right. They're not," Ging concedes. "But I saw some things that caught my eye in the catalog."

"Oh?" He cannot keep the subtle thread of interest from weaving its way into his voice. "And what would those be?"

"You'll see if I buy them."

"Strong talk. You can _try_, but I think you'll find some steep competition in this room. There are some of the top art collectors in the world represented here." Pariston nods towards the other half of the room; and while Ging's sure Pariston knows exactly who he's talking about, Ging doesn't care to know. His quarry is here, seated right beside him.

"I don't like competition. That's more your style." He stares ahead, watching as the red velvet curtain rustles from behind; the show is about to begin. "I'll do more than _try_. If I see something I want, I won't let it slip through my fingers."

"You try my patience." His voice is lighthearted, the tone at odds with the warning in his words.

"Good," Ging says, turning his attention back towards Pariston. "_Someone_ should."

That gets him a laugh, at least, and Pariston looks a little more relaxed than when Ging had shown up at his aisle, but as the curtain lifts and the host steps forward, his shoulders tense again.

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. We welcome you here tonight…"

Ging tunes him out, settling himself deeper into his seat. He rests his hands in his lap, keeping his elbows close to his body—with no open armrests and barely enough room for his feet, he has only to wait for his listing. He is good at waiting.

Any hunt is mostly watching and waiting. It is only in the last moments that will determine the outcome—if the target has played to the script the hunter has written for them, or if they deviate, and test the hunter's skills further. One means an unfulfilling success—the other could spell either victory or defeat.

Ging Freecs certainly does not intend to lose.

"Auction listing number 38! A rare work by the impressionist painter Nonet! We'll start the bidding at ten million jenni—"

Only two more listings to go until that one painting would go up. Beside him, Pariston has barely paid any attention at all to the proceedings on stage, occasionally whispering to Ging about whether or not the buyer had gotten a good deal or overpaid, or he would offer up a tidbit of information on the various art collectors whose names or faces he recognized. Ging, for the most part, ignores him, but on occasion he asks Pariston to go further in depth on a particular sculpture or painting, both to throw him off the trail and to test whether or not he actually knows anything about what he's talking about.

"Did you know," Pariston whispers conversationally, "that this particular Nonet is one of the rare ones to include people, as opposed to solely landscapes? Quite rare. It's a treat just to be able to see it like this."

Ging clenches his teeth. "Shut up! No one cares!"

"Oh, don't be like that." While it's true that there is little noise in the theatre beyond the auctioneer's calls, the audience is hardly quiet; papers rustle, and people lean in close to talk to one another, sharing gossip or conspiring about their preferred listings.

"Would you prefer to hear about the next one?" Pariston continues. "I see this one isn't to your taste."

"Sure. Dazzle me." He sinks deeper into his seat, tilting his head up, observing the balconies while making a pretense of studying the relief carvings of scrollwork and leaves on the ceiling and the glittering chandeliers, a good match save for size of the ones in the lobby.

"If you insist. Next up is a sketch by the Rococo artist—"

"Sounds boring," Ging interrupts.

"…The _next_ one, then." Pariston sighs, brushing his bangs from his forehead with one hand. "It's a painting by the deceased naturalist artist Laudubon. Have you heard of him?"

"The name rings a bell."

"Laudubon is renowned for his incredibly lifelike and detailed paintings of plants and animals. They're all notated—the size of the creature, its diet, and so forth, or the exact growing conditions of a particular plant. He did a series of works, though, of fantasy species the likes of which have never been seen with the human eye. Fascinating work—this one is of a clawed, wingless animal resembling a dragon or snake. Still notated, of course. I'd be interested to see what sorts of things Laudubon has written about that."

He looks over at Ging, as if suddenly remembering who he is speaking to. "Have I lost you?"

"No, I'm still here." Ging's watching the stage, now, where the Rococo sketch is in mid-sell.

"Imagine that," Pariston continues, wistfully, "for someone so concerned with replicating the exactitude of nature, to be convinced to paint such creatures! He must have known someone with quite the imagination."

"You sure know a lot. Did you memorize the entire catalog or something?" Ging turns towards Pariston, watching him; he wants to be able to look into his eyes when he answers.

"Or something." He smiles to himself.

Ging lets his attention drift towards those sitting on the opposite side of the theatre, looking for anything out of place. He sees nothing out of the ordinary, but that does not mean it isn't there. Pariston still has that strange smile on his face. Ging decides he really doesn't like it.

"Well. Thanks for the education." The words taste sour to him, but he has to keep up the pretense. Pariston gives him a curious look.

"Could it be that this was one of the items that caught your interest? You have yet to bid on anything, you know. There are only so many listings left this evening."

"And if it is?" he asks carefully.

"Hmm." Pariston rests his chin in one hand, hiding his mouth behind his palm, taking his time. Listing number forty is about to begin, and Ging feels the slightest bubble of anticipation, of panic, of the certain knowledge that the waiting and the watching is done with this hunt.

"I'd remind you that I enjoy competition. I think I'd enjoy outbidding you."

"No chance." Ging lets his mouth rise in the slightest of smiles. "You say something like that, and I'll _have _to buy it."

Onstage, the auctioneer clears his throat. "Now introducing Auction Listing number forty! A painting by the naturalist Laudubon, and part of his fantasy beast series! We'll start the bidding at ten million jenni!"

A few people towards the front of the theatre raise their hands, and the bidding slowly ticks upward. After a few calls, the auctioneer seems to be alternating towards one of the buyers in the front, and another towards the back that Ging cannot see. He raises his hand.

"Eighteen million! Do I hear nineteen?"

Ging can hear Pariston laughing, and when he looks back at him, Pariston's wide smile gleams in the soft overhead lighting. He raises his own hand.

"Twenty million! Do I hear twenty-one?"

"You should bid again," Pariston tells him. "Since you want it so badly."

He doesn't really care _who _gets the painting as long as it isn't in Pariston's hands. But he raises his hand again, raising the bidding to twenty-three million, still competing with the few remaining interested individuals scattered around the theatre.

Pariston is quick to follow. "I didn't lie to you."

"—Twenty-four million! Do I hear—"

"Oh, come on," Ging says. "Is that not a lie right there?"

Pariston's bid is swallowed up within seconds, and the both refrain from bidding again. Once the price passes thirty million, the bids trickle down to just two or three people. The older woman in the front shakes her head, and the auctioneer directs his attention towards the bidders in the back.

"Do I hear thirty-one—"

"I don't lie to _you_, Ging. But I can make a habit of it if you'd like." Pariston looks forward, like he's considering jumping back into the bidding, but sits back in his chair after a moment. "It's all yours if you want it."

"How kind of you." Ging's hand twitches, but he keeps it by his side as the bidding tops out at thirty-five.

"Going once? Going twice—"

To his right, Pariston is the picture of penitence. The auctioneer's voice booms out like thunder.

"Sold, to the gentleman in the back for thirty-five million jenni!"

There is the customary round of applause after each listing, and to Ging's surprise, Pariston lifts his hands and claps them together loudly. It's the noise, and the awkwardness of the act, that unsettle Ging the most. It's not something he would have guessed Pariston to do.

After a pause, Pariston speaks to him as if nothing has happened. "Would you like to hear about the next listing?"

"Nah, I'll pass. I think I'm done here for the evening." He stands, considering his work done, and this time Pariston at least makes an effort of moving his legs to allow Ging to pass.

"Good luck with your artifacts." Pariston sounds amused.

"Yeah. And you, with your…vases."

"Oh," Pariston says confidently, "I don't need luck."

Ging wonders what that's supposed to mean, but he's already drawing enough attention from standing in the aisle, so he turns and walks up the numerous, low steps towards the theatre doors. On the threshold, he pauses, turning around.

There's an auction attendant, leaning down towards a man seated on the aisle in one of the back rows. The attendant has some kind of digital tablet with her, and as she takes down the man's payment information Ging realizes that he must have been the final bidder on the most recent listing, and that he's seen this man before. Recently.

He had been the one to wheel Pariston's luggage away when Ging met them in front of the elevator the previous day. And now he sits, the new owner of the very Laudubon painting he had tried so hard to keep out of Pariston's hands.

With nothing further to be done, he exits the theatre and returns to his hotel room. Instead of the catalog photos, now when he closes his eyes he sees Pariston's smug, grinning face. He had known.

It burns more than he'd care to admit.

He buys his artifacts back for a cool fifteen million jenni, and leaves. He doesn't see Pariston again; he doesn't know if the man's left or if he's staying for the rest of the auctions. He doesn't care to know.

Several weeks later, Ging has returned to his excavation site after overseeing the installation of the artifacts at the museum in Swaldani City. A package arrives for him—strange that he should even be receiving mail in a place this remote, but even stranger that the package has no return address.

Inside, packaged tightly, is an Azian vase of black-lacquered porcelain with a stretched, asymmetrical lip. A single piece of cardstock rests on top of the packing material, the message written in sloping, elegant handwriting.

_For the start of your collection_.

He turns it over.

_Better luck next time_.

* * *

Notes:

1. Perihelion is the point of orbit of a planet where it's closest to the sun.

2. Swaldani City is the city where the Hunter Association is headquartered.

3. In continuing with the HxH naming traditions, Nonet is obviously inspired by the impressionist painter Monet, and Laudubon is inspired by the naturalist painter Audubon.

4. Thank you for reading! I would appreciate and value your reviews.

~Jess


End file.
